


tether me

by Julx3tte



Series: CF Verse (blue lions) [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Battle Dialogue, CF!Sylvain, Character Study, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Unrequited Love, feligrid if you pay attention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24990403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julx3tte/pseuds/Julx3tte
Summary: CF!Sylvain angst fic, set just at Byleth’s return and the end of the Adrestrian and Faerghus stalemate. Sylvain volunteers for a raiding mission at the border of Faerghus and Leicester, and Byleth acquiesces.A Crimson Flower exploration of Sylvain as the only one recruited from the Blue Lions facing his past, present, and future.featuring sylvain's battle dialogue against his closest friends....
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: CF Verse (blue lions) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1816771
Comments: 15
Kudos: 19





	tether me

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry this is gonna hurt

Sylvain made his way to the Black Eagles’ war tent, treading through the light snowfall that had fallen their camp the night before. They were too far south to see anything heavier than a few inches. Still, he couldn’t help but think of how Gautier was buried in white during the winter months.

He’d managed to calm himself again by the time he entered. Byleth was inside, waiting for him. It was scary how well they could read the Eagle’s moods with such precision. 

“Sylvain,” said Byleth in acknowledgement. 

“Send me on the mission, Prof.”  _ Or I’ll deploy alone. _

Edelgard was… cruel. 

The winter slowed their push through Faerghus, so she decided to keep the army’s morale high by raiding its borders. It was a strategy she learned from him. 

They’d cut eastward towards Alliance territory first, refusing any serious engagements. Claude was still neutral, and mostly tolerated Edelgard’s incursions so long as they didn’t damage any border towns on their side.

Border towns on the Kingdom’s side, however, was another story.

For the last 5 years, Sylvian had sat on the border of Adrestria and Faerghus fighting in stalemate. Edelgard, after her quick first victories, decided to play the long game, and Cornelia’s coup had all but given her the victory. Still, the Loyalists gave up no ground, and Sylvain’s commission was to keep the fragile peace between the Dukedom and the Loyalists.

It was ironic, that his post would be so close to Faerghus yet so far. 

Byleth had been standing relaxed against one of the tall tables that held war maps and assorted papers. At his request, they stood straight. The half step they took towards Sylvain was enough to snap him out of his mood.

He’d been gripping his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms.

“It’s dangerous,” Byleth replied.

This week, Edelgard had set her sights on Galatea. It made Sylvain’s stomach churn. He understood the reasoning - crush the morale of Dimitri’s nobility, who had enough men to hold their castles but not all of their territory, and harass Dimitri into action. She was counting that he’d be impatient enough to push south in the winter, away from his capital.

She only ever sent a splinter force at a time - nothing fit for a serious engagement. But Sylvain knew this territory was different.

Galatea was poor and had few men, and what forces they still had would barely hold off even a small attack on Castle Galatea proper. Neither was this target a secret - raids on Empire towns moved slowly northeastward, and it was only a matter of time until Galatea was in their sights.

No, Dimitri might never take the bulk of his forces down, but he would send someone

“Professor, please.”

“Why is this so important to you Sylvain?” Byleth asked, finally.

It was good that he didn’t have to force the professor’s hand. He had leverage, information that Edelgard might assassinate even him for. But it was good, in their return, to finally tell the truth.

“Because Ingrid will be there.”

* * *

Sylvian’s ride to a small Galatean border town was uneventful. He kept the Lance of Ruin wrapped up and tied to the side of his war horse while the battalion marched around him. It was the first time in years that he’d actually marched towards battle.

The professor’s return had broken the stalemate. 

Byleth was a force on the battlefield, but the tone of the war shifted after their emergence. Edelgard grew bolder, and the major players had returned. Dimitri re-surfaced and rallied the Loyalists to his throne, and Sylvian, for the first time, had the chance to see his former allies. To see Ingrid.

Sylvain kept his grip tight on his steed’s reins. He wondered whether seeing her would even matter.

For all the ground Cornelia had awarded them, it was actually the move that cost him the most. At one point, Edelgard offered him an out. No questions asked, if you want to return home… go. The Dukedome’s coup had all but taken that off the table - how could he return to Faerghus after Dimtiri’s fall, after his friends had scattered back to their territories, after he’d killed his own brother and joined the Empire? 

He was lucky to be thrown in prison. No, he was grateful for Edelgard's commission.

But Byleth’s return, and the chain reactions that followed, opened the doors to something new, and Sylvain hoped that one of them would be for him. It all started with her.

* * *

Actually finding Ingrid was easy - all he had to do was be bait. 

They’d set their sights on a tiny town, scarcely more than a few shops and home and a main road that led to Galatea proper. It was easy pickings - the terran had few natural defenses, and the single road out meant any Galatean forces could only come from one direction.

His battalion easily surrounded the town, riding through the alleys between homes, spreading panic and fire.Townspeople ran out carrying what they could.

Sylvain, meanwhile, waited at what would have been the center of the town, watching the smoke rise around him. Black wisps floated up at the sky and he thought about the last time he’d had a real conversation with Ingrid.

It was after he’d let Miklan die. The professor had… asked him to join the Black Eagles for the mission and he couldn’t say no, not to that. Still, it was something else to visit the ruined castle, to spare some of Miklan’s soldiers only to watch his brother… mutate. 

For all the beatings, the humiliation, the relief when Miklan finally left home, putting the spear to him was something Sylvian never imagined doing. Not even when he’d sit between Felix and Ingrid and let them rub circles in his back, or put ointment on his wounds. 

He should have let them do that when they returned.

Instead, that night was a haze. Sylvian could barely remember refusing Rhea the Lance of Ruin. He’d marched to his room and scraped the tip of the spear against the stone walls until the blood - his brother’s dried blood - came off. The damn spear didn’t even look worse for wear. 

Sylvain remembered stabbing the Lance of Ruin right into the wall between his room and Dimitri’s so hard that he left a hole big enough for Dimitri to stick an eye through. 

The three of them had rushed in - Felix, Ingrid, and Sylvain, to check on him, and he’d left.

They weren’t there. Felix had lost a brother, but he wasn’t there, and he didn’t put the sword to them. Dimitri had lost his family, too, but he was powerless at Duscur. Sylvain made the choice. He’d stopped the professor’s blade and did it himself. 

The mere sight of them had made him want to hurl.

He’d run into the professor while wandering out at night and made up his mind to leave then. 

A few months later, it was too late to turn back.

* * *

He heard the banners before he saw them. Galatea Pegasus Corps, the sole source of pride for Galatea’s meager military, sounded off before battle. It was Ingrid’s doing. 

Then, over the horizon, he saw the banners. Tall flags bearing the crest of Dapnel, carried by a few knights on the ground. Then, above them, a shadow that signaled the Pegasus Corps. At this distance, it was impossible to see the individual knights. He wondered which was Ingrid.

He’d purposefully brought a small force with him. Officially, this operation was a trap to capture or kill one of Dimitri’s generals. The bulk of the strike force, led by the professor, remained back and out of sight. This kind of force deployment was a risk. It was possible she wouldn’t come at all, or would come with Felix or another general, and the strike force would have to retreat. 

What should have been a minor border conflict was staged to be a battle. Sylvain spit in the dirt as he thought about burning towns as minor conflicts. Galatea was poor enough without more refugees spilling towards the castle.

As the Galatean force moved to engage, Sylvian’s units retreated, taking up defensive positions in the trees where they could give archery cover for him.

There was nothing about battle that Sylvain found musical. Some of the others, Ferdinand, and Bernadetta in particular, claimed to hear the rhythm during battle. But there was nothing beautiful in the chaos and the carnage. The only opening beat he could hear was the darkening of the sky above him, signalling that the Galatea Pegasus Corps had taken the field.

A half beat later, he saw a glint of metal surging towards him and kicked his horse to gallop back.

_ Luin  _ struck the air in front of him, leaving a trail of sizzling sparks. Ah.

Sylvain let his horse spin in a circle while waiting for the second pass of her attack. He caught a glance of Ingrid as she dove towards him.

She’d cut her hair, was the first thing he observed. He was so used to her braid flailing in the air behind her - now, Ingrid wore a bob and heavy steel armor, a sharp contrast to the black paint he’d begun to wear. She’d also started to wear boots - they went part way above her knees, securing her mount on her pegasus. He’d bugged her about that vulnerability for a month - he always wore tall greaves while riding a war horse. 

There was too much to observe and too much to say, and talking meant dismounting the both of them. Seeing him at the center of this attack meant his usual tactics of disarming her - calling her beautiful and watching the sigh of disbelief on her face - wouldn't work.

Battle it was.

Ingrid’s second strike would be impossible to dodge. Instead, he raised the Lance of Ruin and deflected her blow. The sound of relic against relic sent a shockwave through the town, knocking down already charred wooden walls. 

Sylvain had spent the last few months of the Black Eagle’s reconstitution training with Petra. She didn’t fly her pegasus like Ingrid did, but the practice helped him understand the mechanics between air to ground fighting, and gave him intuition on holding a defensive position against the sky. 

But Ingrid was stronger and hit harder and Sylvain’s positioning didn’t matter. Her strikes were devastating - what he couldn’t deflect left dents in his armor, scratching off the black paint. Just the two hits he’d taken bruised his ribs and his shoulder to the point where he considered switching tactics.

Ingrid circled the air just above him, not even bothering to stay out of range of a javelin throw. 

"Sylvain. This isn't funny. What are you doing?" 

His blood ran cold. Even against the chilly air he could feel himself losing breath. Five years since they’d been face to face and they were enemies.

Worse, she didn’t speak to him like they were in battle. She used the same chastising voice as when he’d been slapped after a bad date and she was passing him a cool cloth to press on his cheek. He wasn’t sure whether to run to her or attack.

"Sorry Ing. I believe in the professor more than I believe in Faerghus." His voice surprised him. He expected his voice to quiver and betray him, but it came out even and cold. Measured. 

She descended a dozen yards in front of him and he gripped the Lance of Ruin until his knuckles were red against the metal on the inside of his gauntlets.

He wasn’t lying. Faerghus had failed him. It had failed Miklan, and it would fail Ingrid, too, and standing against the professor, even if he was able to turn coat, would be an empty symbol in lieu of true reform.. Edelgard could do away with crests. Then he could return.

He wondered if she’d ask. Ask him to return to them, offer him forgiveness and erase the last half decade of choosing sides and losing too much. But Ingrid was always too headstrong for that. 

“Perhaps I can cut away the scales in your eyes,” she said. Ingrid twirled Luin in her hands and ascended in a graceful spin. 

Her first attacks had been a warning. Now, she came after him with intent, pressuring his position with attacks from multiple angles. Ingrid was merciless.

Each blow, even the ones he deflected, exploded into shockwaves. Luin struck harder than any other spear that Sylvain had sparred against, and Ingrid pressed the attack at an unsustainable pace. One strike, to his forearm, nearly cut clean through his gauntlets. Another almost knocked him off of his horse. 

Getting in hits of his own was impossible. 

On the fourth or fifth dive, Ingrid caught his horse’s neck clean on the side. She’d feinted a blow to knock him off of his horse and twisted at the last second to change targets. He didn’t have time to adjust. The horse died with a gurgle and he dismounted before it could collapse and trap his leg. 

He’d expected this outcome but not her resolve. He’d hoped that seeing him alive would temper some of her protectiveness over Galatea - a foolish assumption. Since when had he been sufficient to pull her away from duty? 

If he couldn’t get her on the ground now, he would die. 

The last time he’d used the Lance of Ruin’s power was when he cut down the beast that had been Miklan. Its flesh had bubbled and distorted as  _ Ruined Sky _ shifted the air within it. The tip of his spear glowed a crimson red, and he saw Ingrid’s face flash with fear.

He’d replayed the end of that battle over and over again over the last five years, analyzing how the ability worked. When he’d used it then, it simply sent raw power through the air. Sylvain was reasonably confident he could control it. 

The air between them broke apart.

Ingrid tried to twist her pegasus to avoid it, but she was already mid-descent. A sharp current of air surged towards her, placed just so that she’d have to choose a hit on her body or her pegasus.

She contorted to narrowly dodge it, but the disruption in the air pressure caught her pegasus’ wing, singing half of it away and Ingrid crashed to the ground with a thud. 

He took a few steps towards her as she took a knee, using Luin to prop herself up. Her hair had come undone, sticking to the dirt on her forehead, and her clean armor now bore the mud of the earth. 

Up close, he could see the frustration etched on Ingrid’s face. She was holding her hip as she limped towards him, dragging Luin against the ground behind her.

“You were supposed to stay with us, Sylvain,” she said, voice barely loud enough for him to hear. “But you left and didn’t say a word to anyone, and now you’ve returned to burn Galatea?” 

_ Stay _ .

The word was a promise between them once. Sylvain could feel the memory dredging itself from the depths of his heart and he couldn’t help his hands shaking.

> _ “I'll stay as long as I can. You're useless without me, after all,” she’d said, taking his hand.  _
> 
> _ “What? No, I'm saying if there's one thing I can do on the battlefield, it's keep you safe.” He poked her on the shoulder to prove his point, and she rolled her eyes. _
> 
> _ “Whatever helps you feel better. Stay and protect me, then. I couldn't bear it if you went off and died on me while I wasn't around.” _

Neither of them had the strength for a long fight now, but they circled each other, weapons trailing behind them. 

“I haven’t died,” he said. “Not yet. I told you I wouldn’t die while you weren’t around.” 

He’d even come to find her. To prove that he was still living, inhabiting his body, that he hadn’t forgotten. 

A wave of restlessness passed through Ingrid, making her body shake as she remembered the promise between them. Her eyes glanced down into the dirt and Sylvain could see the hesitation in her steps. The thumb of her free hand disappeared behind her palm.

“But you didn’t stay, Sylvain,” she snapped quickly. Then, softer: “Why?”

She took a deep breath and eyed the half dozen or so feet in between them. It felt like more than that - the weight of five years and half a continent of distance between Sylvain and Faerghus . Her voice was barely a whisper: “Why didn’t you come back?” 

She was giving him a chance to explain why he’d suddenly reappeared in Faerghus setting flame to her territory, but he had no answer. It was too much to say it all - how, trapped between Cornelia’s coup and Edelgard’s advance, there was no way back. There was no path that didn’t involve death or capture save to wait, and that he was still alive was enough of a testament.

It was the same reason he’d kept the Lance of Ruin. Whatever he felt about how he’d come to possess it, it gave him the power he needed to cut through. To follow Byleth to the ends of whatever, and to wait until their return. The Lions hadn’t fought with them - they hadn’t seen the weight of their convictions and the power behind their words.

But using Byleth was a weak excuse. The truth was, he was scared. It was too much to change sides twice and he’d pushed it off again and again until it was too late and all he had left was a border and a relic. What were the right words for that?

“We were supposed to be friends forever Ing,” he said instead. “You had the ideals, the passion to change Faerghus. Why haven’t you?” It was a non-answer at best and an unnecessary accusation at worst, but it was all Sylvain had to give. He bit the inside of his cheek, and Ingrid’s frown told him she’d caught on to this memory, too.

> _ “I know what you mean. It's probably because we've been friends for so long.” Ingrid had smiled wider than he’d ever seen.  _
> 
> _ “That must be it. Let's never change. Friends forever?” He stuck his pinky out, but a very serious look replaced her grin. _
> 
> _ “Absolutely. No matter what happens, we'll always be friends, Sylvain.” _

Her silence spoke more than her question.

Sylvain always prided himself on his loyalty. Despite the way he’d thrown himself into debauchery, he never promised the girls he saw anything but a date. To his friends, though, he promised all that he had.

The gulf of experiences in the last half decade showed him that some choices were more powerful than promises. It was too late, he decided, to walk through a new door of fate.

Ingrid was standing in front of him, and behind her were the charred woody remains of people’s houses. Above her, Faerghus’ banner carried by the Pegasus corps, who’d retreated from fighting his battalions in the forest. 

This was exactly what he’d done already, wasn’t it? He’d burned his home down and turned away from it all. Ingrid and Felix and Dimitri were always his home, and now they would burn at the Flame Emperor’s advance. Sylvain had been too much of a coward to join them. 

As if reading his mind , Ingrid’s voice cut right through the fog of his thoughts.

“You were the one that locked yourself away,” she replied solemnly. After a beat: “I told you I would stay by your side. You didn’t let me. I would have.”

She’d come closer, almost in arm’s reach, and all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms.

Instead Sylvain took a breath and confirmed his fears. “And now?” 

Ingrid blinked slowly. The familiar face he remembered was gone. “I’m a knight of Faerghus, Sylvain. That duty comes before everything else.” There was no waver in her voice.

“You would kill me, Ingrid?” Sylvain asked, testing his grip on the Lance of Ruin.

“For Faerghus? To stop Edelgard? To keep Dimitri on the throne?” Ingrid raised Luin again, pointing it at his throat. “Without hesitation.”

Sylvain raised his weapon in return. “There’s nothing left in Faerghus for me Ing. I’ve disavowed the house of Gautier. I’m a general of Adrestria. And I’ll remain after Faerghus falls to pick up the pieces.”

“Is that really all that’s left in you?” she asked. “We read Cornelia’s old reports. From your post in the Dukedom. Is all you want for Fhirdiad to fall and for Edelgard to leave you alone with the ruins?”

He had no answer. He imagined all of them - Dimitri, Deduce, Felix, Ashe, Mercedes, and Annette standing before war reports. He could picture the gap where he would have stood, analyzing battle formations and plotting out how to spend their resources. He thought about how he’d report Edelgard’s battle plans, her army’s positions and her fortresses’ defenses. How he’d apologize.

Ingrid’s voice broke him out of the spell. “Felix didn’t want me to come, you know,” she said delicately. “But I wanted to see for myself.”

“Why does it feel like I have to pick which promise to keep?” he said, bitterly. “Between dying with felix and not dying apart from you”

“Not all promises are equal,” she replied. 

Sylvain followed her eyes and saw the last thing he expected. Around her neck was a chain, and on the chain was a ring he swore Ingrid buried a decade ago in Fraldarius. 

Clarity came to Sylvain. He would die here, and his loyalty would die with him, swept up by the strength of promises far greater than his. 

“I’m not afraid,” he said, more to himself than anything.

Ingrid’s eyes looked sad and resigned, but she advanced on him. He dodged the first two thrusts of her lance, and didn’t bother to deflect the third. 

Luin pierced through his armor cleanly, and Ingrid didn’t twist the wound. She let him stumble back, holding his guts in with one hand and holding his body up against his lance long enough to backpedal until he hit a wall or a tree or something hard and painful and collapsed.

“Don’t get in my way,” she said, mournfully, turning her back to him.

It was a mortal wound. They both knew it. There was no need for any more. Ingrid would return home and lick her wounds and report to the others, and Sylvain would die before the cost of his choices and cowardice. 

With the remainder of his strength, he hurled the Lance of Ruin towards her. It had all started with the relic. The journey to retrieve it, Miklan’s foolishness, and the weight of his damn family falling upon him time and time again until he found someone to hold him up, all of it began that month. It was only right that he give it back to Faerghus.

Ingrid turned to the sound of the spear flying towards her, and barely reacted. Her eyes were red and had welled up with tears since she’d turned away, and she brushed them away with a hand. 

The Lance of Ruin flew harmlessly past her, a few feet to her side, and impaled itself into the earth. Good riddance. 

Sylvain’s let his eyelids shut as the last of Ingrid’s footsteps faded. He released the pressure on his stomach and waited for the inevitable cold that signaled the goddess’ magic. 

Byleth would have to be strong enough to change fate for him.

* * *

Sylvain made his way to the Black Eagles’ war tent, treading through the light snowfall that had fallen their camp the night before. They were too far south to see anything heavier than a few inches. Still, he couldn’t help but think of how Gautier was buried in white during the winter months.

He’d managed to calm himself again by the time he entered. Byleth was inside, waiting for him. It was scary how well they could read the Eagle’s moods with such precision. 

“Sylvain,” said Byleth in acknowledgement. 

“Send me on the mission, Prof.”  _ Or I’ll deploy alone. _

Byleth had been standing relaxed against one of the tall tables that held war maps and assorted papers. At his request, they stood straight. The half step they took towards Sylvain was enough to snap him out of his mood.

He’d been gripping his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms.

“It’s dangerous,” Byleth replied.

“Professor, please.”  _ I need to see her. _

“No. We are pulling out of Galatea,” Byleth answered firmly. “I’m sorry. She’ll have to wait.”

How did Byleth know? The thought of Ingrid flying through the skies sent a wave of sadness through him. What did she look like now? Had she finally cut her hair like she’d said she would? 

Byleth took a careful step towards him and pulled him into a hug, and Sylvain let the images of his former allies pass through his thoughts as tears filled his eyes. He missed them - he missed home.

**Author's Note:**

> fluff is coming soon


End file.
